


After All This Time

by vicisse



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alternate Ending, Character Study, Dr. Aurelius is an actual doctor who maybe dishes actual advice from time to time, F/M, Fix-It, Peeta isn't just an accessory, Post-Canon, Post-Canon Fix-It, Relationship Study, and no one is haphazardly thrown into an empty ending that means nothing, where Katniss gets closure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2018-08-13
Packaged: 2019-06-16 08:32:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15433071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vicisse/pseuds/vicisse
Summary: Time heals all wounds, but scars remain. Even if scars fade, memories do not.Katniss returns to a home as broken as she is. To her, surviving comes as easily as taking a breath, but living is much harder.---Or, more simply put, an alternate Mockingjay ending.





	After All This Time

**Author's Note:**

> I know I’m like 50 years late to this or whatever, but I reread the series recently and really felt frustrated with the way MJ ended and ended up writing an alternate ending that doesn’t suck. Oops.

After my trial, I go back to Twelve. I remember Haymitch coming in to tell me we’re going back home, but the rest of the day feels like a blur. For the past week, I watch as people empty of Thirteen to return to their respective districts. A handful of people from Twelve are eager to return, but I can’t say I share the same sentiment. There is nothing but ash to come home to, but to many, it is what it is: Home.

I’m sentenced to return to a district that burned because of me. Once the doctors have cleared me a last time, I join Haymitch on the Hovercraft, but not without aid. A person from the medical team helps me board. He gives a nod okay and leaves without a word.

It takes me a while, at first. The sight of the craft makes my body go numb from shock. I suddenly remember how Prim died, how she was on the field assisting the medical team when the second wave of bombs went off. Whether they are District Thirteen’s bombs or Beetee’s or Gale’s— They are all the same unmerciful strike.

I order myself to take a deep breath and make a mental list of everything that has happened—one of the few helpful exercises Dr. Aurelius has gone over with me.

 _My name is Katniss Everdeen_. _I am the Mockingjay_. _I_ was _the Mockingjay_. _I_ was _the face of the rebellion_. _I_ killed _Coin_. _My sister is dead_. _I’m coming home_. _I have to come home_.

Even after I collect myself, I can barely move. Haymitch checks on me, helps me fasten the seatbelt. “Good?” he asks.

I nod. It hurts to speak, but I swallow and manage, “And Peeta?”

Haymitch shakes his head. “Not cleared yet,” he answers, “but you’ll see him again soon.”

I don’t tell Haymitch that I don’t want to see him. I’ll be too overcome with guilt or anger or whatever else there is to feel. The state he’s in is my fault. For allowing us to get separated at the arena. For allowing Snow to take him. I’m afraid if I see his face, I’ll break down in tears. The last thing I want to do is cry in front of Peeta.

I remain silent for a long moment and wait for the takeoff that doesn’t happen. I turn to Haymitch, confused, but he looks just as lost.

“I guess we’re waiting for someone,” he tells me. “Plutarch, maybe. I heard he’d be heading to Three, but I didn’t think it’d be with us.”

As if on cue, Plutarch makes his appearance, half-jogging half-walking up the ramp of the Hovercraft to join Haymitch and me. He gives Haymitch a pat on the shoulder and greets me with a hundred-watt smile. “Katniss!” he says. “Looking so much better. How are you holding up?”

I doubt I look much better than the last time he’s seen me. I haven’t looked in a mirror for days, but I’m sure if I did, I won’t be able to recognize myself. During my hospital stay, I don’t recall doing much; I barely eat or drink or sleep. People have to come in and make sure I don’t die. I’m barely skin and bone, and I never had much meat to begin with. Maybe Plutarch just wants to be polite.

I don’t really feel like speaking any more than I have, so I give him a simple nod and close my eyes. I try to sleep, but every time I’m in darkness, I see memories and deaths play out. I see fire. I clutch my armrest tight and decide to stomach the rest of the trip awake.

Plutarch seems to enjoy the company. Even though I’m barely listening, he prattles on, asks if I’m interested in making an appearance on this singing program he’s launching. “That’s why I’m headed to Three,” he explains. “I need to talk to Beetee about arrangements. New tech and all. Very fun.” I suppose he wants something upbeat to cheer up Panem after it’s been ravaged by war, but I don’t know how to tell him that I’m not the person to do it. He even offers to send a camera crew to my home, but I’m hoping by the end of our one-sided conversation, he’ll forget about the show all together.

The Hovercraft stops in District Three to drop him off, and Plutarch bids me a final farewell, telling me, “Don’t be a stranger.”

I probably won’t bother trying to reach out to Plutarch any time soon. Knowing him, I doubt I need to. He’ll probably reach out to me anyway, give me a call I’ll do my best to ignore.

When we’re airborne, Haymitch grumbles, “Good riddance,” and takes this opportunity to rummage through every compartment in the Hovercraft for liquor, but it’s pointless. His search comes empty, and he returns to his seat beside me.

I turn to Haymitch. “Why did they send you back to Twelve anyway?” I know why I have to go, but I can’t imagine Haymitch wanting to come home to charred rubble when he can drink himself ragged in another district far away.

“Guess my charming personality wasn’t enough for them to put a show on for me,” he grunts. “Doubt I’d like it anyway.”

I accept that for now, but I can’t shake the feeling of something amiss. It isn’t until I remember that Haymitch hasn’t done anything to be tried, that he can go anywhere in Panem, but he’s going to Twelve with me. _With me_.

“My mom,” I say slowly. “She isn’t coming back, is she?” It comes out more like a statement than a question. I know she isn’t coming back. What is there to come back to, anyway? My father is dead, and Prim is dead. Everything my mother remembers as her home is in shambles. The only living family she has left is a shell of a person. I don’t blame her for wanting to stay away.

Haymitch takes a deep breath, reaches into his bag, and retrieves an envelope. “I was going to wait until we landed, but…” He trails off and hands it to me. “A message. From your mother.”

I examine her looping handwriting, trace my fingers over each letter of my name. “Where is she?” I ask quietly.

“District Four. Starting a hospital,” says Haymitch. “She wanted me to tell you to call as soon as we land.” For a moment, his eyes soften at my sorry sight. How pitiful I must look, a lonely girl with no family and no real home, so scarred by war that the people she fought for can’t even trust her not to kill herself with isolation. Lucky for the both of us, he turns away and stares out the window. “Wanna know who else isn’t gonna be there?”

I have a few ideas, but I’m too tired to continue conversation. “I want to be surprised” is all I say, and Haymitch accepts this without question. He doesn’t bother me for the remainder of the trip.

While waiting to arrive, I stare out the window, too. I find the darkness outside to be strangely comforting; it’s a better alternative to sleeping, after all. I let myself wonder instead of dream. I don’t know what the point of returning Twelve is. It isn’t really home. Not anymore. There’s nothing and no one for me to come home to.

 

* * *

 

We don’t touch down in Twelve until nightfall. The only good landing spot is in a field near Victor’s Village. Little patches of grass have begun to grow where the ash is damp from rain and melted snow. Only the houses there remain standing; some with light and others without. I guess it’s where the people of Twelve stay in the meantime.

The rest of the district is in ashes, but the medical team has hope that they can at least find bodies for those who were able to escape and take refuge in District Thirteen—those who lost family during the bombings. They haven’t been able to search so thoroughly before because of the war.

I almost tell them it’s hopeless. Although it is the springtime, everything is so still, so flat, so lifeless that even the wind doesn’t blow through the ruin. I step forward, prepare myself to say it aloud, but no sound comes. Instead, my eyes have wandered, and they settle on the middle of the few patches of grass to survive. It is surrounded by a mountain of ash, and I almost miss it. Almost.

I move in its direction and squat down, holding the stem carefully between two fingers. It takes all my self-control not to break down in tears.

A dandelion.

 

* * *

 

I’m not dead, but I feel like a ghost in my own home. Someone has built a fire in the kitchen, and I find myself sitting on the rocker before it. Haymitch follows, then leaves after making sure I’m okay, bidding me a quick, “See you tomorrow.”

I don’t remember falling asleep in front of the fire, but next thing I know, sunlight is streaming through the window, and Greasy Sae is here, cooking breakfast for me. I don’t question it. She stops by in the morning to make me breakfast, leaves, comes back again for lunch, leaves, and returns once again for dinner. I’m not sure if she does this for me or does this because she’s receiving government compensation. I don’t really care either way. It’s just nice to see a familiar face.

True to his word, Haymitch visits later on. “Glad you’re still breathing,” he says, and that’s the last time I speak to him for a while. In the days that follow, he does not visit. Sae tells me that she tries checking up on Haymitch, but she’s since stopped after he pulls a knife on her. Thankfully, she isn’t injured, but she is startled.

“Don’t mind him,” I tell her. “He’ll survive. He’s done it for so long.”

Greasy Sae shakes her head at me. “Times like these aren’t about surviving any more,” she says. “Times like these are when we finally get to live, Katniss.”

I think I would like to believe her. But with death so fresh in my memory it is impossible. I spend the next couple weeks drifting in and out of sleep. I only wake up to eat or escape from nightmares.

One morning, I dream that I’m at the bottom of a very deep grave. Every dead person I know by name comes by to shovel dirt on top of me, and it feels like the nightmare is never ending. Even after I’m sure I wake up, the shoveling noise continues. Half-asleep and panicked, I bolt out the front door and around my house when I stop abruptly at the sight before me, someone familiar kneeling before fresh mulch and dirt. “You’re here,” I say. It comes out like a breath of relief.

“They finally cleared me yesterday. Dr. Aurelius wouldn’t let me leave,” he says, “and he wants me to tell you that he can’t keep pretending to treat you forever. You have to pick up the phone.” Peeta stands, brushes the dirt off his pants. He looks better. He’s thin and covered in faint burn marks, and his face flushed from digging, but the biggest difference is in his eyes. They’re clearer, less clouded from pain. “How’ve you been?”

“Fine.” I take a step back defensively, suddenly conscious of my sorry appearance. I’m barefoot and my hair is greasy from not having bathed in days. Instinctively, I cross my arms over my chest. I’m about to turn away when I see the wheelbarrow next to him. It has five flowering bushes. “What are you doing?”

“I went to the woods earlier,” he says. “Dug these up. For her.” He raises one of the bushels. Primrose. “Thought it’d be nice to plant around the side of the house.”

Before I do something stupid like cry, I give Peeta a nod and head back inside the house, closing the door behind me.

My mind is a flurry of things all at once. Primrose. Prim. Rose. _Rose_. A memory resurfaces. To my disgust, it isn’t one of my sister. I feel a surge of rage as my eyes settle on the door to the study. _Rose_. The suffocating scent fills the air around me, and I hurry upstairs to my room where I find Snow’s pristine white rose is shriveling among the other dry flowers. I take the whole vase with me downstairs and hurl it at the fire with all my might. Even as I watch the fire engulf the flowers, I still smell roses everywhere: my hair, my clothes, my skin.

I clean up the excess shards that fall far from the fireplace. Then I head upstairs and take a bath for the first time in days. I’m vigorously scrubbing away traces of that putrid rose smell until my skin is bright pink. I dry myself off, dress quickly, and hurry downstairs once more to burn the clothes I had been wearing before. Greasy Sae comes comes by again around lunch. She seems more surprised by how clean I look than the mess in the kitchen fire.

When I scarf down lunch in record time, she laughs. “What are you in such a hurry for?” she asks. “Special occasion?”

“Not really,” I answer. “I want to go hunting.”

Sae gives a nod of approval. “I could use some fresh game,” she says. “Be careful, Katniss.”

Before I set off to the woods, I change into my father’s jacket and grab the game bag. I make my way back to the kitchen to gather food containers to give to Haymitch. Sae is still here, washing the dishes. I’m tempted to ask her if Gale has returned, but I stop myself, remembering the last time we spoke. I decide I would rather not see him any time soon and shake the thought from my mind.

Instead, I think of Peeta and wonder if he’s still outside. He probably is. I should offer him food, too. I say a quick goodbye to Greasy Sae before leaving, tell her about Peeta. She waves me off, saying, “Yeah, yeah. Tell him to come in while the food’s still hot.”

I round the house and see him, still digging diligently. I walk close enough to be in earshot. “Hey,” I say. “Hungry?”

Peeta looks up, has to squint his eyes from the beating sun. “You cooked?”

“No, but Sae did.” I nod my head in the direction of the kitchen, repeat her message. Then, I tell him, “I’m going hunting.”

He looks down at the soil and then back at me. “I’ll finish up here and head inside soon,” he says.

Without another word, I walk down the street to Haymitch’s house. He always leaves the door unlocked, so I don’t bother knocking; I just let myself in. I find him sprawled on one of the living room sofas, surrounded by empty bottles and messes of his clothes and some plates and cups and wrappers of food. I’m not nice enough to wake him up kindly, so I nudge the coffee table in his direction. “Haymitch,” I say. “Wake up.”

He gives me a groan in answer, waves me away with his free hand. The other hand is tucked under a pillow, probably clutching his knife.

“Whatever.” I set the food down in front of him. “Sae made food. Eat up.”

After another incoherent answer. I step around his clutter and finally head to the woods.

 

* * *

 

With a bow in my hands, I feel more like myself. I hunt for squirrels and maybe deer, if I’m lucky. I set up traps, too. My mind drifts to Gale, back when we used to come here together, but I dismiss the thought. Thinking brings back pain and memories I would rather forget. Instead, I focus on the task at hand. The kills I make with my arrows aren’t as clean as they used to be, but it works. I get back into a rhythm here. I almost take the same way back to my old home, but my feet screech to a halt.

Maybe my mother and I have a lot more in common than we both thought. The past few years haven’t been kind to either of us. Just as we think we can get along again, I am dragged into the Quarter Quell. Then the revolution. Then loss.

Between my mother and I, the losses are too great, too heavy for either of us to ever lean on each other. We have both lost dad before, and because of that, I’ve nearly lost her. She almost loses me to the Quell and to the revolution, too. But now, we’ve lost Prim. In a way, I can say that my mom has finally lost me, too. And if my mom has to come back to look after me, I will have lost her sooner or later.

At least in District Four, my mother can find purpose again. She can find something worth living for. I might still be alive, but I’m not living. Not exactly.

All I do is survive.

 

* * *

 

By the time I return to my house, Peeta has already finished planting, and Greasy Sae has gone home for the night. She leaves me with dinner, which I eat gratefully.

I store the game in the cold cellar downstairs. It won’t be as fresh in the morning, but it will do. Afterward, I head back upstairs and bathe myself again, washing out the dirt and grime from the woods. For the first time since I have arrived, I find myself in my own bed. I easily tire—weeks of inactivity catch up to me—but I use the last of my strength to replace the bedsheets.

I try to sleep, but my mind is restless. I feel afraid. I turn to the only true belongings I have, the ones I had brought to Thirteen with me. The mockingjay pin. The locket. Peeta’s pearl. Still, I feel anxiety bubble in the pit of my stomach. Despite myself, I open the bedroom window, like Peeta does. I see the remains of the Meadow, the scorched ground, the burned trees. Slowly, people have been planting and growing more, but the Capitol’s modified plants can only do so much. The bombs have done far greater damage.

And it is all because of me.

When I look out the window, I can’t help but remember every single person I watched die. Glimmer. Rue. Marvel. Cato. Cinna. Gloss. Mags. Wiress. Brutus. Castor. Boggs. Finnick. Prim. The list goes on. The list is endless.

Most of all, I remember Peeta. Unlike the others, Peeta isn’t dead, but I have watched him die before, during the Quell. I remember standing by, helpless, as I let Finnick bring Peeta back. I remember relief flood my lungs when Peeta breathes again, and I remember hating myself. I still do. For that moment, for letting Peeta die when I had sworn he would be the only one leaving the arena alive, and for every moment after.

I hate myself for being weak, for not being able to keep Peeta from Snow. I hate myself for the few months I spent in safety, in Thirteen, when my district burned. I hate myself for not instigating a rescue for the victors who were still trapped in the arena after the District Thirteen’s Hovercraft took Finnick and me. I hate myself even more for staying away from Peeta when he was hurting the most, when Snow tortured him with tracker jacker poison.

The memories of what I did to him, of what Snow did to him because of me, haunts me. How he can continue to do things for me, like plant primroses in memory of my dead sister, is beyond me. It only makes me hate myself more, for being completely undeserving of the kindness he has always given me.

And what have I ever done for him, for all the times he has cared about me?

Once my head starts aching, I finally retire to bed. This time, I hold Peeta’s pearl in my hands. For such a small thing, it feels so remarkably heavy.

 

* * *

 

In my dream, I relive the night before the seventy-fourth games. Peeta and I are sitting on the rooftop, and he tells me how he wants to prove to the Capitol that he’s more than just a piece in their games.

Right as my mouth moves to reply, I find that the scene has shifted. I’m in District Thirteen. I see Peeta on the screen, with his hollow face and swollen eyes. I hear myself cry out for him, cry to the people of Thirteen to save Peeta, but everyone ignores me.

I turn around again, hoping to catch one last glimpse of Peeta’s face when I’m in the square of the Capitol. Coin hands me my bow, tells me not to miss. I see Snow in front of me and Coin behind. Instead of killing Coin, like I have before, I see my chance to kill Snow myself, and I shoot.

At the last second, Snow becomes Peeta. I rush forward, attempt to catch him before he hits the ground, but I’m too late.

 

* * *

 

When I wake up screaming, the last thing I expect is for Peeta to burst into my room, calling my name. I almost cry—out of relief or surprise or anger—but nothing comes. I’m only shocked by his quick arrival. He’s drenched in sweat and his pant legs are dirtied with ash. It looks like he ran here. He ran to me.

“You—” I’m too stunned to think. “What are you—”

“You were calling me,” he pants. Peeta hunches over, puts his hands to his knees, and catches his breath. “I heard you screaming my name.”

My nightmare. Peeta had been in it. In my nightmare, I killed him.

When I remember that, something inside me bursts, and an ugly sob wracks my whole body. I turn away from Peeta. I can’t stand to see the sincerity of his concern for me; it’s all too real, too much. I don’t deserve any of it. Not for what I’ve done to him.

“Katniss!” He calls my name over and over, his voice inching closer. When I feel his arms around me, I sob even harder, but I’m helpless and shaking. Too weak to push him away. I repeat and repeat, “I killed you,” in a trembling voice. I can’t bear to have him see me like this, but Peeta’s voice continues to comfort me. He assures me over and over, “I got you.” “You’re safe.” “It was just a nightmare.”

What hurts the most is that it works. I sob and sob, but Peeta never lets go. Eventually, I cry away all my tears. I fall asleep in Peeta’s arms that night, sleeping soundly for once.

 

* * *

 

The following morning, when I wake up alone, I convince myself that everything I remember from last night is one of my more elaborate dreams.

Planting primroses in my sister’s memory is one thing, but running to comfort me after a nightmare like that makes my chest feel heavy. It’s too much. After all I’ve put him through, I won’t blame him if he treats me coldly. He hasn’t, and it only adds more weight to my guilt. Crying to sleep in Peeta’s arms as he comforts me after I killed him in a dream feels too unreal. It _has_ to be something from a dream.

I dismiss it with a shake of my head.

I’m about to leave when something shining catches my eye. At my bedside table is the pearl I had been holding onto, carefully placed next to my locket and pin. It’s likely that I might have dropped it in the night, but I don’t remember putting it anywhere.

I bolt downstairs, almost tripping on the last few steps. I lose my balance and have to prop myself on the wall to help keep myself on two feet, but slowly, I make my way to the kitchen, prepared to see Greasy Sae making breakfast, as usual. Instead, I see—

“Peeta.” My throat feels dry. I swallow first before asking, “What are you doing here?”

“Making breakfast,” he answers. “I stayed the night. I didn’t want to leave you alone.” I barely have time to register Peeta’s words before he adds, “Sae stopped by about an hour ago. Her granddaughter’s sick, so she can’t come by for the rest of the day. Managed to drop off some bacon, though.” He never once looks up from the stove, focusing instead on cooking. “Are you feeling better?”

“I’m not sure yet,” I say truthfully. I bite my lip and wonder whether I should ask Peeta the same. Instead, I say, “Did you have a nightmare, too?”

Peeta shakes his head. “Not tonight,” he says, but it only means he must have had plenty before.

I nod in response. I take my seat at the dining table, fold my hands, lean my head again them. Then, after a few moments:

“Thank you,” I say, “for staying.”

His response comes quickly. “Always.”

Peeta sets the table, places food in the middle. He even offers to help me with servings, but I decline. He’s already done so much for me.

“By the way, I found that pearl. I don’t know if you noticed it, but—”

“I noticed,” I say softly. “Thank you.”

“You still have it?”

His surprise stings more than it should. I remain silent for a while, wondering how I should answer. If I should answer. Peeta must have noticed because he quickly adds, “You don’t have to say anything, Katniss. I was just wondering out loud.”

What he doesn’t understand is that I do want to answer. _I still have it because it reminds me of my promise to protect you, and I failed_. _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry_ , I want to say. I never do.

Peeta’s presence has made me realize how badly I owe him, at the very least, my honesty. Even after making Haymitch and me promise to be open with him, I break that promise with each silence I let pass between us. Silence is just a reminder of the truth I never dare tell him aloud.

But I’m not yet ready for that. I don’t think either of us are. I give Peeta a nod and spend the rest of the morning without speaking.

 

* * *

 

By the time I finish bathing and changing into fresh clothes, I find that I have the house to myself. I am alone. Somehow, it feels more overwhelming today. Maybe it’s because I have gotten used to Greasy Sae’s constant presence that I never come to realize how lonely it actually is.

It must be lonely for Peeta— Lonelier, even. His entire family is buried somewhere in ash. Whereas I’ve only lost my father and Prim separately, Peeta has lost his mother and father and two brothers in one fell swoop. All killed in the bombings. All while he had been tortured in the Capitol. All because of me.

I remember Dr. Aurelius talking to me about guilt before. When he isn’t busy taking naps, pretending to treat me, he does say useful things. He tries to remind me that I’m not responsible for what has happened. Snow is. He tells me I have to stop convincing myself I’m the one at fault for all that’s happened. I still find it hard to believe. But he reminds me that the best thing I can do is go through the motions; take each day one step at a time.

With this in mind, I finally give him a call. It’s the first time I’ve ever heard him sound so happy. Even after our conversation ends, I run with the small piece of strength I manage to find. I carefully open the envelope from my mother and dial the number she left me. Together, we weep. Over my father, over Prim, over our lost home.

Finally, I ask her, “Are you happy?”

She pauses, sniffles, and says, “I don’t know yet,” and adds, “Are you?”

“I don’t know,” comes my answer. “I don’t think so.”

“You will be.” The confidence in her voice makes my chest ache. “We will be.”

 

* * *

 

Peeta and I rebuild our relationship with routine. Though I still like to keep to myself most of the time, off hunting for fresh game, I always make sure to give Peeta a call at the end of the day. Even if our talks don’t last more than a couple minutes, it is a comfort I look forward to. After a few weeks, Peeta thinks to expand the fertile soil behind my house and turn it into a garden. Sometimes, we tend to it together. Sometimes, I’ll stop by his house or he’ll stop by mine, talking mostly, attempting to make plans for another day.

But some days are harder than most. Even though we make a habit of sleeping beside each other, it isn’t something we always do. Nightmares come and go, but we try to tell each other about them. I think it helps.

Today marks exactly a year after Peeta’s rescue from the Capitol. Flashbacks keep coming to him, and he spends long moments clutching tables, the backs of chairs, anything to steady himself.

I want to help him, somehow, but I’m unsure. I think I’ve convinced myself that helping him would only add more pain. I still remember the way I treated him when he was hijacked. Abandoning him. Pushing him away. What right do I have to stay by his side when I’ve caused him the most pain?

After Peeta settles, he asks if we could talk. He starts to tell me what he remembers from his time at the Capitol, what Snow had his people do to him to torture information out of him. When his voice starts breaking, I say, “Peeta, you don’t have to keep going—” He doesn’t need to stop me. I cut myself off once I see his face, see him hurt but resolute.

“I do, Katniss,” he says quietly. “We should be honest with each other.”

He’s right. From the start, Peeta and I don’t really have a good history of being honest with each other, though Peeta was always better at it than I am.

“Besides,” Peeta continues, “you’ve been trying to be more honest with me. About everything.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” I tell him. It’s me that owes Peeta, really. For saving my life over and over again. “You don’t have to tell me—”

“It’s not I have to. I want to.” Peeta looks down at his hands. “You don’t owe me anything, either. I don’t want you to be honest with me because you think you do,” he says. “We’re not in the Games anymore, Katniss. We won’t ever have to be. Not everything is an exchange, not everything is to get even.”

I stay silent a long while. He’s right. Again. But I can’t help it. All these years, I’ve been hardwired to think that something as simple as kindness has strings attached.

The authorities at Thirteen had treated refugees from Twelve with kindness, but in reality, they only wanted to repopulate. Numbers were low thanks to an epidemic that killed many and left others infertile. Even Thirteen, which prided themselves on being different from the people in the Capitol, only used people for its benefit.

“Right,” I say quietly. “Sorry.”

Peeta doesn’t even look at me as he rises from the sofa. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” he tells me. “I’ll be at my house. Don’t wait up for me at dinner.” He leaves without another word.

 

* * *

 

When Greasy Sae comes by to drop off dinner, she looks confused. “Peeta not here?”

I shake my head. “He’s not feeling well,” I say. It’s not a complete lie.

“Did you fight?”

“No,” I lie. It is sort of like a fight, I guess.

She makes a face at me. “You aren’t that great at lying, you know,” says Greasy Sae. “Make up with him soon, will you? You look sad without him.”

“I will. Thanks.” I’m about to close the door when I add, “Do I really look that sad?”

“When he’s around, you actually look like you might be able to smile,” Sae tells me. “You have a good night now, Katniss.”

“You, too,” I reply.

 

* * *

 

Without thinking, I set the table for two.

 

* * *

 

That night, I sleep by myself. Close the window. Turn the lights off. Then I hold Peeta’s pearl in my hands. Nightmares haunt me throughout the night, and I wake up, hysterical, crying. “Peeta—,” I begin, but I remember. He isn’t here.

I’ve been selfish, expecting him to be here all the time. And what have I done for him, to understand him, to be there for him unconditionally?

I am selfish. I am a monster.

 

* * *

 

“Katniss? Are you still there?”

I snap out of my daze, turn my thoughts back to the phone call with my mother. A few days have passed since I last spoke with Peeta. “Sorry,” I say. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Something bothering you?”

I tell my mom about Peeta, tell her how I keep hurting him after all this time. It isn’t fair to him. I haven’t been fair to him.

“Have you tried listening to what he has to say?” my mother suggests, her voice patient. “Just be there for him, Katniss, and don’t do it because you feel like you owe it to him.” She pauses, then asks, “Why do you feel like you owe him something?”

I want to give her silence as my answer. Hang up. It’s tempting, but I’m giving honesty a try, for once. “He’s saved my life,” I decide to tell her. “Over and over again. And when he needed me most, I blamed him. I want to make it up to him somehow, but I...” I trail off. Shake my head. “I don’t know what to do, Mom.”

“I’m sorry, Katniss,” she says. “I don’t know what to do either.” I hear her take a sharp breath, about to add something, but she exhales and tells me instead, “Try giving Dr. Aurelius a call, okay?”

“I guess.” I change the subject abruptly, bring it back to her and how her hospital is doing. She picks up on it gladly, even gives me an update on Annie, though the conversation takes a turn from there.

“Poor thing is still reeling from what happened,” says my mother. “The postpartum depression is a lot longer than I thought it would be.”

“She’s not alone, is she?”

“No. I didn’t want to commit her, or have a stranger watching over her, so I’m looking after her and the baby for now. I help her keep her appointments with a therapist I know.”

“That’s good,” I say. “I hope she feels better soon.”

“Me, too.”

The subject changes again, this time about how our districts are repairing respectively. District Four’s much better off than Twelve, which is expected. Soon enough, we hang up, and after another lonely dinner, I give Dr. Aurelius a call.

“Katniss?” He sounds surprised. “I wasn’t expecting your call until Thursday.”

“Sorry, it’s just— I talked to my mom about something earlier, and she thought it’d be better if I asked you about it.”

“What about?” I explain to him about Peeta, just as I had told my mom. He’s silent through it all, and when I finish, he heaves a sigh. “You aren’t in the Games anymore, Katniss—”

“Peeta said something like that, too,” I interrupt. “And I know that already.”

“Do you?” Dr. Aurelius sighs again. “Not everything is a trade, Katniss. Not anymore.”

“But—”

“Think about why you shared those things with Peeta. Think about Peeta. If you really think you’re being selfish, then maybe it’s time to think about what he might be going through.”

That shuts me up. When my silence lingers longer, Dr. Aurelius speaks again, “I’ll leave you to your thoughts, Katniss. I’m just a phone call away, if you need me.”

 

* * *

 

A few nights later, I have a hard time falling asleep. I keep thinking about Prim, how it would have been her birthday tomorrow, had she lived. Everytime I close my eyes, I see my happy, smiling Prim scorched to flames by the bombs that fell while she was trying to help the injured. Everything I did to ensure she would live feels like it had been for nothing— She’s taken from me just like that.

In an instant, she disappears before my eyes.

I don’t remember moving. It feels like my legs move of their own volition, and I’m running barefoot, out of my house and onto the street, three houses down. His house is familiar, unlocked, and soon I find myself in front of Peeta’s bedroom door on the verge of tears.

He opens the door and blinks back in surprise. “Katniss?”

“I need you.” It’s all I have to say before Peeta has his arms around me, and I return his embrace. I tell him about Prim, tell him it’s her birthday tomorrow, tell him how she would have turned fourteen, tell him how so many things were waiting for her.

But she’ll never get the chance to do any of them.

What I don’t tell Peeta is that I’m still afraid that he’ll be taken from me, just like Prim was. It will all happen in an instant; he’s with me one moment and gone the next. Just like in the arena. I keep holding onto him, and it’s all I can do to convince myself that nothing will happen to him.

“I’m right here,” Peeta reassures, over and over again. I know he says it to mean that I’m not alone, that I can depend on him like I’m doing right now, but it means so much more. It is so much more. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Stay with me,” I whisper.

Peeta’s embrace tightens. “Always.”

 

* * *

 

Sae is redirected to Peeta’s for breakfast, and she seems happy with the change, glad that I “made up“ with Peeta like she’s told me. If she notices our swollen, watery eyes, she makes no mention of it.

“And listen,” she starts, “as much as I like coming over to drop off meat, the markets are starting up in the square, around all the construction. The two of you should check it out some time.” And with that she leaves, bids us farewell after handing us some meat.

After Peeta finishes cooking, I blurt, “I’m sorry for what happened last time. Really. We don’t need to trade or get even or settle a score.” I pause to swallow nervously, meeting Peeta’s gaze as squarely as I can. “After everything we’ve been through together, I want to be honest about what happened when we weren’t. I’m sorry I made it about that.”

Peeta spares a smile. “You know,” he starts, “I think that’s the first real apology I’ve ever heard from you.”

I bury my face in my hands to hide the embarrassed blush heating my cheeks. “That’s not what I wanted to hear,” I say.

“Probably not.” Peeta shrugs. “I already forgave you a few days ago, Katniss.” In a quieter voice, he says, “I think it’s time you forgave yourself, too.”

That catches me off guard. Slowly, I say, “You’re right,” and remain silent the rest of breakfast.

 

* * *

 

I have the rest of the day to myself. My feet instinctively wander to the woods, to the big oak by the hollow log I keep my bow.

I wonder how long it will take me to forgive myself. If I can even forgive myself.

 

* * *

 

Later that night, I call Peeta, ask about his day. When there’s a lull in the conversation, Peeta asks, “Do you forgive me?”

“For what?”

“For what I was when I was hijacked. Do you blame me?”

I stay silent a while. “I did blame you,” I admit. “But not anymore. Not now. I blame myself. It was my fault you got captured in the first place.” I hear a sharp breath, probably Peeta preparing to protest, but I quickly cut him off. “And it is. It’s my fault. I made a promise to you, to Haymitch. I wouldn’t let us get separated. But we did.” _And worse of all_ , I don’t add. _I cared about you more than I should have_. _And it nearly cost you your life_. Silence lingers before I muster the courage to ask, “Do you blame me?”

Peeta goes silent, too. “I did,” he starts to say, “or the tracker jacker poison told me I did. It’s hard to tell the difference sometimes.” He sounds like he wants to say more, but he holds his tongue. I realize it’s because he blames himself, too.

“You said it’s time to forgive myself. I don’t think I can. Can you?” _Can you forgive yourself, Peeta?_

He huffs out a breath, half-smile half-laugh, but there’s no humor in his voice. “No,” he says. “Of course not.”

I don’t know what comes over me, but the hopelessness in Peeta’s voice stirs something in my chest. He’s always been a quiet source of my hope. Maybe it’s time I try to be his. “Maybe we can’t forgive ourselves yet,” I tell him. “But we will. Someday.”

“Someday,” Peeta echoes. Though I can’t see him, I can easily picture his face, the ghost of a smile on his lips. “I’d like that.”

 

* * *

 

As months pass, Peeta and I create a new routine for ourselves. We make a habit of sleeping next to each other, just as we had during the Games, to help with the nightmares. The following mornings are always early, and we start with walks to the markets that opened where the Hob once was. After we have breakfast at my house, we take the leftovers to Haymitch so he doesn’t starve to death.

We come up with a game we call Thirteen Questions. Each person is entitled to asking that amount of questions a day, and the other has to answer truthfully, no matter what. There is only one pass, and no one can pass on the same question more than once.

Most of the questions are easy, get-to-know you questions like we’ve done before—what my favorite flower is, favorite food, favorite time of day, and so on. I ask Peeta the same things, too. Sometimes the questions are just follow-ups of the last ones, like why we like something or when or how. Sometimes Peeta asks questions like “What was it like in District Thirteen?” or “Do you love Gale?”

Oddly enough, I haven’t really given Gale much thought after my return to Twelve. He only exists, very briefly, in the moments I spend in the woods. Despite that, my answer is immediate. “No,” I say. “I don’t think I ever did. Not in the way he wanted, at least.”

“Why didn’t you?”

My silence feels endless. I don’t want to say aloud the first response to come to mind, so I use my pass. Peeta accepts without a second thought, but the guilt gnaws at me.

I would have answered, “He wasn’t you.”

 

* * *

 

The next morning, when Peeta and I are at the markets, I ask Sae about Gale while Peeta haggles at another stall, looking for flour.

“He’s at District Two,” she says. “Got some fancy job there. I see him now and again on the television.”

Makes sense why I don’t know what he’s up to. I haven’t touched the TV since I returned home. I don’t think I ever will. I don’t think I need to.

I guess that’s what Haymitch meant when he had talked to me about who else wasn’t coming back.

Later, I get more time to think to myself about it after lunch. Peeta says he’ll catch up after he makes a phone call to Dr. Aurelius. I decide to clean the house and start upstairs in my room.

I fold my clothes, change the drapes, replace the sheets. Afterward, I take a break, sit down on my bed, think. I pick up my locket from the bedside table and turn it over between my fingers.

Peeta had given it to me. It was his token before coming into the arena a second time. He gave it to me on the beach, insisting that I have to be the one to make it out alive. For my mom. For Prim. For Gale, even.

Now, I have none of them. My mother lives too far, my sister is dead, and I don’t care for Gale—not like I used to. All I have left is Peeta. Peeta, who never abandoned me. Peeta, who still cares for me and watches over me despite all I’ve done to him. In the end, it’s always Peeta.

But I can’t help but wonder: Do I love him because he stayed? Will I love him even if he didn’t?

 

* * *

 

I spend the remainder of the day alone, mostly trying to convince myself that I’m not avoiding Peeta on purpose. I keep busy, spend time cleaning out the rest of the rooms on the second floor.

Since I’ve already gone through my room, I move onto the others, starting with my mother’s first. Her room is relatively easy to clean, and I realize she must have stopped by the house on her way to Four. What little belongings she had from our old lives is gone; all that remains are clothes provided when we moved.

The room I struggle with the most is Prim’s. Her room remains relatively clean, as she usually kept it, but many of the furniture have been collecting dust. I start with dusting and work my way toward the clothes she left. At the sight of them, I feel myself force down a sob.

It’s hard not to see my little duck, with her tail untucked at the back. It’s hard not to see my Prim, with her bright smile and easy tears. She’s always worn her heart on her sleeve, that girl.

But she’s gone. Her smile, gone. Her laugh, gone.

 

* * *

 

Later, I make my way to the side of my house. Pick out the primroses leaning too close to the ground. I take them in my hands and put them in a little vase. Fill it with water. I leave the vase in my sister’s room, press my fingers to my lips before brushing them against the cool glass.

When I leave, my heart feels heavy. It feels like I have said goodbye again.

 

* * *

 

The following day, I go hunting again. It feels lonelier in the woods.

 

* * *

 

Another day later, I muster the courage to visit the ruins of my old home. I sift through the burnt wood looking for something, anything, when an angry hiss makes me jump.

Buttercup is able to make it out here, somehow. He must have escaped in the chaos in District Thirteen and survived long enough to make it back here. Now, he stands over where Prim’s bed used to be, circling around and periodically hissing at me as I approach.

“Stupid cat,” I say, nearly yelling. “Prim isn’t here. She’s never coming back.”

Another hiss.

“Hiss all you want. You aren’t going to find her here. She’s dead.”

Still, Buttercup is restless. He paces the house, traces his way through Prim’s daily routine, before finally stopping at my feet. His ugly little face twists into an expression I can only describe as a glare.

“Didn’t you hear me the first time?” I yell, my voice breaking. “She’s dead. Prim is dead.”

It feels like each word knocks the air out of my lungs. My knees wobble, and I stagger backward, head spinning. Prim is gone. _Prim is gone_. I don’t even realize there are tears falling down my face until Buttercup’s sad mewl snaps me out of my reverie. He rubs against the side of my leg, purring to comfort me. It doesn’t last long. Eventually, Buttercup starts crying, too.

We comfort each other as we mourn Prim’s death. I’ve never been more appreciative of that cat’s presence until now.

 

* * *

 

When I return home, Buttercup in tow, Peeta is there. He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t at all question it. I set the cat down, let him wander a bit, and then place the game bag on the kitchen counter to cook for dinner.

“I’m gonna give him a bath,” I tell Peeta on my way upstairs. “But I should be done in time for dinner.”

“Need help?”

“No, I think I’ll be fine.” I’m halfway up when I turn around and add, “Do you think Haymitch would be up for dinner?”

Peeta shrugs. “Maybe,” he says. “Should I ask?”

I haven’t seen Haymitch in a while. I know he’s alive and Sae stops by his house to drop off food too, but I still feel like I should do something.

“I’ll come with you,” I say. “Give me a few minutes.” Then, I ask Peeta to help me wash the cat after all.

At first, Buttercup is uncooperative. He keeps screaming at me but calms down after I hand him off to Peeta. Stupid cat hates me after all.

Peeta gets started in drawing the water and washing him, while I’m in charge of taking out the thorns in his fur and drying him off. It’s strange—at some point, I start crying silently, remembering Prim, and Buttercup cries with me. We comfort each other, and Peeta is there to comfort the both of us, too.

When we finish, Buttercup decides to wander around the backyard, pouncing on helpless birds for food. He’ll get dirty again, but at least he gets to spend a few moments looking clean.

Peeta and I make our way to Haymitch while Buttercup does his thing. We find him collapsed on the couch, surrounded by empty bottles and empty containers once filled with food—though, I suppose it isn’t as empty as I make it out to be. Instead of food, the containers are filled with flies.

I give Peeta a look. It seems I don’t even need to say anything for him to get my message. We really need to clean up here, too.

Carefully, we start to wake Haymitch. Peeta makes sure to take his knife away beforehand, but it is still troublesome to get him up. His breath wreaks of so much alcohol I almost throw up. I’m sure Peeta feels the same. Nonetheless, he takes it upon himself to help Haymitch in the bath.

While Peeta does a thankless job, I start to clean up. I stack all the containers at the sink and pick up all the wrappers and bottles and place them in their respective waste bins. I tidy up the living room, find the linen closets and lay fresh sheets over the couch and remind myself to come by to help Haymitch clean later. The other sheets I take with me upstairs to change the sheets of his bedroom.

By the time I finish, Peeta has gotten Haymitch dressed. We stay in the kitchen a moment while Peeta helps Haymitch to several glasses of water.

“So,” Haymitch starts, setting his glass down, “what’s the occasion?”

Peeta looks at me for answers. I just shrug and say, “Nothing, I guess. Peeta and I are just about to have dinner, and I thought we should get you out of the house for once to join us.”

“You did?” Haymitch looks at me questionably and turns his glance over to Peeta, as if asking for confirmation.

“She did,” Peeta affirms.

“Huh.”

“Don’t act that surprised,” I say, irritated. “Are you coming or not?”

“I need to eat sometime,” says Haymitch. “So sure. Why not?”

 

* * *

 

After dinner, Haymitch asks that I walk him back while Peeta cleans off our dishes. I thank Peeta and follow after Haymitch.

“Something happened,” he says quietly. “I don’t know if you’re gonna tell me what happened, but something did happen.”

“Nothing important,” I reply. “I just went back to my old house and picked up a straggler. Prim’s cat.”

“I noticed the cat, but I wasn’t talking about that.” Haymitch stops to stare at me. “Anything happen between the two of you?”

I shrug, shrug away the fact that I’ve been avoiding Peeta. “Nothing,” I tell Haymitch. “We’ve just been talking, getting along, I guess.”

“Huh.”

“Whatever.” We spend the next few of minutes in silence before finally stopping in front of his house. He grunts a goodbye, and I wait until he’s halfway up the steps before calling, “And Haymitch? Go outside every once in a while.”

He mutters something incoherent while waving me off without so much as a glance back at me.

 

* * *

 

Peeta waits up for me. I change into some pajamas before settling into bed, but the question on his face is nagging at me.

“What?” I ask.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Peeta says. Nothing in his voice is accusing; he says it like a fact.

“Have not,” I lie rather weakly.

“You’re a bad liar.” Peeta sits up, stares out the open window. “Do you want to tell me why?”

“Why I’m a bad liar?”

My poor attempt at redirecting the conversation doesn’t faze Peeta at all. He gives me this pointed look, and I realize there is no way out of this.

“Fine,” I amend. “I was avoiding you.”

Peeta is quiet for a moment. Softly, he asks, “How come?”

This time, I’m the one to remain silent, mulling over what to say. “Because I don’t know if I love you,” I say honestly. “I don’t know how people love people. I just know when they don’t.”

“You love your dad. You love your mom. You love Prim.”

“It’s different. They’re family.”

“Not all families love each other.”

I know. Regret hit me as soon as the words spilled out. I know about all the instances where families with one too many kids have allowed the weaker children to starve to death. One less mouth to feed, after all. I know about different instances too. Children my age or younger walking to school with bruised cheeks or arms or legs. Not all families love each other. In a quiet voice, I say, “I know.”

Silence passes between us. It isn’t until minutes later that I have the courage to speak again. “How do you know?” I ask. “How are you so sure that you love me?”

“I think I told you,” Peeta starts, “back at the arena. When we had to go back. No”—he pauses, takes a deep breath—“especially when we had to go back. I don’t know how I could live with myself knowing that I had survived instead of you.”

I remember thinking the same thing all that time ago, back at the arena, but I keep this to myself because of my uncertainty, my guilt. I remember convincing myself that Peeta had to go back as redemption, on my behalf and Haymitch’s. He is better; he is good. Of the both of us, he is the one who deserved to be a Victor.

But I also remember that feeling on the beach. That hunger, that warmth. With that comes a short, stabbing pain in my chest when I wonder how Peeta could be so willing to throw his life away for me, to give up everything for me.

More silences pass until, eventually, I hear Peeta’s breath even. For once, he is asleep before I am.

 

* * *

 

The next day, Peeta and I go about our routine again and split up to spend some time alone. I take to the woods, but I don’t hunt. I abandon my bow in its hollow log and climb a tree. I stay close to the trunk, lean my back against the damp bark, close my eyes, and think.

I pick up from where I was last night. My mind drifts to Peeta and how, even after all we’ve been through, he is sure of his love for me.

But in these woods, Gale isn’t far from my thoughts, either.

I think of the conversation I overheard between him and Peeta. About which one of them I will choose. _Whoever she can’t survive without_ , Gale had said.

I wonder about that. Am I convincing myself I love Peeta because he is the one that stayed? And even if I loved Gale, am I convincing myself I don’t because he might have a hand in Prim’s death?

Then I think: What if the Games never happened? What if I had never known what it was like to starve, to be at death’s door? What if life before hadn’t been about breaking the law to survive? Who would I choose then?

The answer hits me so suddenly I almost lose my balance. I shift my feet, steady myself against the tree trunk, and take a deep breath. I decide that I’ve spent enough time out here.

 

* * *

 

I have just finished tending to the garden, picking ripe tomatoes, when the phone rings in the kitchen. I expect it to be Dr. Aurelius or maybe my mother or Plutarch, even, but the voice that greets me at the other end is so unexpected I almost jump out of my skin.

“Hey, Catnip.”

I’m almost too stunned to answer. A full minute has passed before I can muster, “Gale?”

“Thought I should give you a call since it’s been a while.” He pauses a moment before asking, “How’ve you been?”

I let an awkward silence drift between us. And finally, I say, “Fine,” and then, “How did you get this number, anyway?”

“I’ve been in contact with Plutarch,” says Gale. “Had me running stuff for him here at Two. I asked for a way to contact you the last time we spoke.”

“Oh.” I remember Plutarch mentioning something about Gale when I had confused his call from one I expected from my mother. But a few days have passed since then. “Why did you call?”

“Katniss, I just—” Gale stops. Takes a deep breath. “I wanted to check up on you, see how you were doing. I wish we could back to how things were. You and me. Hunting. I miss it.” He sighs. “I miss my best friend. I miss you.”

If I felt neutral to Gale’s sudden phone call before, I feel slow anger prickling under my skin now. “So you waited more than a year,” I say slowly, “to tell me that you missed me. You never even came back to Twelve once.”

He heaves a heavy sigh. “You don’t understand, Katniss. I thought—” Gale cuts himself off when he realizes he had been slowly raising his voice. “I thought you would still be mad at me,” he says quietly, “for what happened.”

The moment the words leave Gale’s mouth, I feel my chest collapse. Prim. The bombs. Fire. A memory resurfaces then, of his parting words to me, before sending me off to execute Snow, before telling me, “Shoot straight, okay?”

_“That was the one thing I had going for me,” he said. “Taking care of your family.”_

Back then, he had also told me that no matter what he said or did, I would always think about it. His bombs killed Prim. _His bombs killed Prim_. He promised to take care of my family, but _his bombs killed Prim_.

I’m so taken aback by remembering so suddenly I have to grip the table to keep myself from collapsing to the floor. My legs feel like they are about to give out, and I feel as though I’ve forgotten how to breathe. Slowly, I slide down the wall behind me, staring hopelessly at white paint ahead.

“...niss. Katniss,” Gale says. “Are you still there?” And then, very quietly, I hear him say, “This was a mistake.”

“You’re right,” I tell him. I don’t know if he knows whether I’m confirming his mistake or my anger for what he had done or both. I’m not sure if I know myself. “You’re right,” I repeat helplessly.

“For what it’s worth,” he says after a long silence, “I’m sorry.”

 _Sorry isn’t worth a lot. Sorry won’t bring Prim back_. More vile words sit on the tip of my tongue, but I bite them back. It will only pain me more to say out loud. “I know” is what I manage instead.

Another silence passes. I feel the weight of all the things that go unsaid between us. What could have been and what could never be.

Finally, Gale speaks. “Goodbye, Katniss.”

For once, I don’t stop to think about what to say. “Goodbye, Gale.”

I don’t think we ever really said proper parting words the last time we spoke. Though we’ve had plenty of goodbyes before, this time feels different. This time, it is final.

 

* * *

 

“Did something happen?”

“Gale called.”

A pause. Then, “How did that go?”

“Awkward. Painful.” I tell Peeta everything. The weight on my chest feels lighter with every piece of honesty I give him. I stumble in the middle, feel my chest heave and my vision blur. But Peeta is there to hold me up, to remind me to breathe. I continue slowly.

When I stop, Peeta keeps quiet, thinking. “Do you think you should see him?” he asks. “For closure?”

“I don’t want to,” I reply immediately. “I don’t think I need to. Goodbye is more than enough.”

Peeta nods in understanding, then carefully lays down to sleep. I lean over to close the light when the pearl I keep on the bedside table catches my eye.

“Peeta?” I ask. “Are you still awake?”

He hums in response.

“Can I tell you something?”

He grunts, but he sits up again anyway. Faces me. “Anything,” says Peeta.

“I never told you why I kept this.” I hold out the pearl toward him.

“And now is such a good time?”

“While I’m in a sharing mood,” I say half-heartedly. I turn my attention back to the pearl. “You gave this to me,” I start, nearly whispering, “back then. On the beach.”

“I think I remember that.”

“I kept this with me in Thirteen,” I say. “It was one of the only things I could keep with me. Call my own.” I roll it over in my hands. Squeeze it. “I would tie it around in a parachute. I think I convinced myself it was your life, and no one can take it away as long as I guard it.” Tears begin to prickle at my eyes. “But I was so weak. I am weak. I couldn’t—”

“Katniss, you don’t have to—”

“I do, Peeta. I do.” I place the pearl back in its place on the bedside table. “I couldn’t protect you like I promised. I couldn’t protect you from Snow, and he did—” I swallow back a sob, feel my throat burn. “He did such awful things to you and I—”

“Katniss, please,” Peeta says. “Let’s stop here for now, okay?” He carefully takes my face in his hands. “You’re in a lot of pain.”

I examine his face. His eyes are blotchy red with tears. He looks exhausted, too; the dark circles of his eyes only seem to be getting darker these days. Peeta’s been having more and more nightmares, more terrible things he’ll have to relive, more terrible things I can’t protect him from. “So are you,” I say quietly.

Peeta says nothing first. Moments pass, then, “Promise me you’ll go to sleep soon. We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

“Promise.” I give him a nod before turning off the lights and laying down to sleep. “Good night, Peeta.”

“Good night, Katniss.”

 

* * *

 

The following morning after breakfast, Peeta offers to help me clean the house. I readily agree, knowing this will give us more time to talk, like we promised. The only room I really need to work on is my prep room, the one filled with the dresses I wore for the Victory Tour, dresses I wore for the wedding between Peeta and me.

I break down in tears thinking of Cinna. And after I calm down, I tell Peeta about him. I tell Peeta about how I had to watch him die in front of me, all for setting my wedding dress on fire and turning me into a symbol of the revolution.

Everything spills out from there. This time, I tell Peeta is that I’m still afraid that he’ll be taken from me, just like Cinna was, just like Prim was. It will all happen in an instant; he’s with me one moment and gone the next. It has happened before, back at the arena. I can’t shake away the thought that it could happen again. I keep holding onto him, and it’s all I can do to convince myself that nothing will come to hurt him.

I tell Peeta about the pearl now, tell him how it reminded me—still reminds me—of a promise I made, a promise I still intend to keep. I tell him how I felt the same, how I couldn’t possibly live with myself knowing that I had survived instead of him.

I remember when Peeta was confined at the Capitol—when he was hijacked. After the people in Thirteen rescue him, he attacks me. Sometimes physically. Sometimes with words. I tell him that I hated him because he could see me for who I really am: violent, distrustful, manipulative, deadly. I tell him how I hated myself, above all, for even feeling that way about someone who continues to stay by my side. Haymitch had to remind me that I shouldn’t blame Peeta, that if the scenario were switched, Peeta would try and get me back at any cost.

_“You’re punishing him over and over for things that are out of his control,” Haymitch had said. “If you’d been taken by the Capitol, and hijacked, and then tried to kill Peeta, is this the way he would be treating you?”_

I hurt everyone around me; they either die or live long enough for me to push them far away. My mother. Prim. Rue. Finnick. Gale. I tell Peeta how I’ve hurt him the most, how I’m afraid that, instead of protecting him from pain, I would only be adding onto it. It isn’t different from what I’ve done before.

“You did all those things to survive,” Peeta says quietly. Though his eyes are red and watery, the tone of his voice remains soft but firm. “It’s not your fault.”

“How can you say that?” My voice cracks in too many places to count. “I had a choice.”

“Did you really?”

At that I pause. Come to think of it, no one really asked me if I wanted a part in a revolution. It just happened. If the other option is dying without a voice, what other choice is there to make?

“For us, surviving is easy,” he continues. “Living is harder.”

“How do you do it, then?”

“I don’t know, Katniss,” says Peeta. “I’ll tell you when I find out for myself.”

 

* * *

 

Later that evening, I wake in time to catch Peeta reeling from a nightmare, calling my name between gasping breaths. I move his white-knuckled grip from the blankets to my hands. “I’m here,” I repeat. “I’m here, Peeta. You’re safe.”

“You’re here,” he echoes, and slowly, the hollow look on his face edges away. “I’m safe.”

When I wrap my arms around him, I still feel him trembling. “You’re okay,” I tell him. “We’re okay.”

He nods weakly against my shoulder. “Stay with me,” he whispers.

I hold him tighter, as if somehow this would help ward away the nightmares. “Always.”

 

* * *

 

Over breakfast, Peeta starts with, “My nightmares never used to be loud.”

I nod, remembering. “During the tour. I was wondering why yours never woke me.”

“Yeah.” Peeta sips his hot chocolate, but he never says more than that.

 

* * *

 

Peeta paints. But I don’t feel like hunting.

 

* * *

 

I walk over to Haymitch’s and find him awake, for once. He’s sitting in front of the television, box of tapes beside him. He doesn’t notice me at first, and he stays that way until I rap my knuckles on the open door.

“You look busy,” I say. I close the door behind me and take a seat next to Haymitch. He smells faintly of alcohol, but at least it’s only faint. He hasn’t drunk in a while. “How long have you been sober?”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” Haymitch grunts. “I can be when I want to be.”

“What’s the special occasion?”

“I’m just watching the Games. Reminiscing about old times. Nothing special about that, sweetheart.”

I grimace at how easily he acknowledges the Games like it’s an everyday occurrence that eventually faded from time. Then again, Haymitch is a Victor, too. For us, the Games never seem to end. I sneak a glance at Haymitch, but he keeps the same sour expression on his face as he watches. It takes me a few minutes to recognize which Games he’s watching.

“That’s the second Quell,” I say. “Why are you watching them?”

“Didn’t realize I needed your permission to do anything,” retorts Haymitch. He shifts his weight from one side to another and crosses his arms over his chest. “It would have been today,” he says quietly. “I remember.”

“You do this every year?” I can’t keep the surprise from my voice. “Haymitch, that’s—”

“I appreciate the concern,” he says, his voice firm, “but I don’t need your input. I already spend every day trying to forget the Games ever happened. And it works most of the time. But not today. I need to remember. I should remember.” He sits back on the sofa and keeps his eyes trained on the television. “If you’re gonna keep nagging at me, you should hurry up and leave.”

I never realize it’s already been so long since the day of Reaping. Sometime between this year and the last, I’ve already forgotten to mark away the days that pass. They’ve began blurring into each other, one by one. But Haymitch is right. We owe it to all the people we killed, to all the people that died anyway. Their deaths are not for nothing. We will remember.

“I think I’ll stay,” I tell him.

“Hmph. Suit yourself.”

 

* * *

 

“Do you do this every year?”

“Well I certainly like myself enough not to do it everyday,” says Haymitch. After he finishes putting away the tape, he gives me a quick once-over, hitting me with an appraising look I know too well. I don’t like it. “You’ve got a thousand questions about something. What is it?”

I blurt the first thing that comes to mind. “Am I really that bad a liar?”

Haymitch looks incredulous. “Is that really what you’re going with first?”

“Just answer. I have more questions.”

“Well,” he starts, after pausing to think, “you’ve got a talent for it, I guess. You managed to convince an entire country that you were in love with Peeta. But no, Katniss. You’re an awful liar. Your face says it all.” I touch my cheek, feeling self-conscious. “Between you and me, sweetheart, I didn’t think you had to lie as much as you thought you did. Really, the only person you’ve been lying to is yourself, and it’s not nearly as hard as you think it is.”

I’m silent awhile, too afraid to answer, too afraid of knowing what it implies. I opt to change the subject. “Do you think it ever goes away?” I ask. _The guilt, the nightmares, any of it_.

“No, Katniss,” Haymitch says. For once, his voice is void of all its gruff edges. “I don’t think it ever will.”

 

* * *

 

Later, I announce, “Thirteen Questions.”

Peeta looks surprised, but he doesn’t reject the game. “You can start.”

“Are you ever going to finish telling me about what happened at the Capitol?”

Though Peeta remained neutral before, his face blanches, and he looks pained. “I wish I could say,” he says quietly, “but I don’t think I’d want you to know.” After a while he adds, “Someday.”

“Someday,” I agree. It becomes our new promise.

 

* * *

 

Peeta has another nightmare tonight. Remnants of shiny memories from the nights he suffered under the tracker jacker poisoning. We start an old game again.

Some of his questions are easy. Other times it’s hard. I try my best to be there for him like he is for me, one hand around his shoulders and the other squeezing his hand.

“You tried to kill me in our first games—with tracker jackers. Real or not real?”

My eyes burn with regret and tears. “Real.”

“You gave me nightlock berries so I could die. Real or not real?”

“Not real.” I open my mouth for an explanation, but Peet continues, gripping my hand for dear life.

“You made Haymitch promise to keep me alive. Real or not real?”

“Real.”

“You pushed me into the forcefield that killed me. Real or not real?”

“Not real.” My voice is barely louder than a whisper, sounds like something halfway to tears.

“I love you,” he says. “Real or not real?”

I have to pause to catch my own breath, swallow back a sob. “Real,” I reply quietly.

“You love me,” says Peeta. His voice is breaking in too many places to count. “Real or not real?”

In a few short seconds, I see all Peeta has done for me, all I have done and would do for him. I see Peeta in how the days end in sunsets, I see Peeta in the dandelions of the spring. I see hope, and I finally allow myself to cry. It’s taken me too long to realize what he has given me after all this time.

My chest is burning, and my throat is on fire. Despite myself, I manage to answer, “Real.”

 

* * *

 

Even though Peeta and I have been doing all right with food, Greasy Sae passees by ocassionally. I just miss her stop today, but she leaves a note on the counter, saying how she had made eggs but left earlier for her son’s birthday.

I meet Peeta downstairs where breakfast is ready. He is sat silently in his usual place at the table, tea untouched before him. I take my spot next to him.

“Morning,” I manage. “You okay?”

Peeta nods, but his eyes are bloodshot and his hands are trembling slightly. “I think I will be,” he says. Then: “Can you tell me what happened last night?”

I start from when I hear Peeta scream next to me. When he jolts upright, I tell him that I’m right here, tell him that he calms down when we start to play Real or Not Real. I stop there. “Do you remember what you were asking?”

Another nod. “Some,” he answers, and he lists them carefully. “I think,” he adds, “I asked if you love me.” He pauses, purses his lips. His eyes look distant, sad. “What did you say?”

My voice feels small, but it’s all I can hear ringing in my ears. Right there alongside my heartbeat. “Real,” I tell him.

Peeta stays silent a while. And then, “What do we do now?” he asks quietly.

I’m about to tell him about my own uncertainty when my eye catches Greasy Sae’s note. With this I remember something she had told me so many months ago. Times like this aren’t about surviving. Not anymore.

“Now,” I say, “we live.”

 

* * *

 

A few days pass without nightmares from either of us. Peeta decides it’s time he finishes telling me about what happened in the Capitol when he was captured—the memories he can recall, at least. I sit and listen and cry and hold him when he starts to. Even after he is done, we still hold each other tight, both of us too afraid to let go.

 

* * *

 

Slowly, Peeta begins to move in with me. It doesn’t take long; neither one of us have very many belongings anyway. Even though we already spent much time together before, we spend even more time together now, talking mostly, maybe walking outside for a change. Sometimes we visit the town to help rebuild, though nowadays there isn’t much to work on. Allies from the Capitol send more machines to help speed the process.

We still keep to ourselves, but we ease into doing more together. Peeta lets me watch him paint. I let Peeta come with me to hunt. On days like that, his heavy footsteps scare away most of the game. But I don’t mind. I learn to laugh more freely, and Peeta laughs with me.

Today, we walk together to the square and help out however we can. We make our rounds together, going from house to house to see what we can do.

It’s almost dusk when we finally take a break. Peeta and I prepare a basket of food and head up to the hills overlooking the Meadow. Together, we watch the sun set. Though bits of the ground are still black with ash, grass is flourishing, and I can see more green than black. The weather is perfect—not too hot for summer. For the first time in a long while, I feel at peace. A warm feeling settles in my chest as I lean against Peeta, staring at the sky ahead.

“One of these days,” Peeta tells me, “we should invite Haymitch out here. He’s holed up in his house too much.”

“Good luck dragging him out,” I reply. “He’ll hate you.”

“He already hates me anyway.”

When Peeta laughs, I find myself laughing, too, and Peeta gives me a strange look. There’s something incredulous in his expression, but there’s also something I can’t quite put my finger on. I feel self-conscious and stop, ask him if it’s really so unbelievable that I can laugh.

“That’s the first time in weeks that I heard you laugh,” he says.

“Well,” I say, “it’s hard to find something to laugh about nowadays.”

Peeta stays silent a while. Then, he quickly plants a kiss on top of my head. “What I wouldn’t give to hear you laugh like that all the time,” he whispers, giving my hand a quick squeeze.

“You don’t have to give anything,” I tell him. “Just stay with me.”

The smile on his face is too brilliant to put into words. “Always.”

 

* * *

 

We play Thirteen Questions again. Lately, we’ve been coming up with less and less questions to ask. Peeta and I agree it’s a good thing. We already know what we’ll answer.

Peeta asks me if I still blame myself. “Sometimes,” I answer, “but only sometimes.”

“Do you forgive yourself?”

“I think so. I think I’m getting there.” I pause. “Do you?”

“I think I do,” Peeta says solemnly. When he stays quiet a while, I glance over at him, worried, and try to guess what he’s thinking. But my worrying is for nothing. There’s a small smile on his lips. “How’s this for someday?”

I manage to laugh a little. For once, there is no heaviness in my chest. A weight maybe, but nothing unbearable. Someday comes after all. I’m glad we lived to see it.

 

* * *

 

The both of us are cleaning the house when we find my family plant book. Looking through it gives me an idea to start a new book, one to honor everyone who’s died. Peeta loves the idea, and when I make my monthly call to Dr. Aurelius, he expresses his enthusiasm, sending a large packet of parchment on the train the next day.

We spend our days filling up that space, naming all the tributes that passed during the seventy-fourth games. Then the quell. Then the people that died in the revolution. For all the pictures we can’t obtain from newspaper clippings, Peeta paints instead.

Haymitch even contributes. When he sobers up every so often, he shares the names of twenty-five years worth of tributes he’s mentored for Twelve. On days where he’s drunk, Peeta and I make sure to care for him, bathe him, feed him, make sure he doesn’t drink enough to get alcohol poisoning and die. Haymitch manages on his own mostly, but we worry anyway. We make sure to check up on him at least once a day.

After he runs out of liquor, Haymitch raises geese. Like Haymitch, the geese manage on their own, but he keeps busy by cleaning up after them and feeding them. Then he sells them to whoever comes to buy. I don’t think Haymitch is ever fully sober, but he lays off the alcohol every once in a while without prompt from me or Peeta.

Once we finish Prim’s pages, Peeta and I decide to take a trip to District Four. I ask Haymitch if he wants to come with, but he shoos me away, saying how the smell of the sea makes him want to puke. We ask Greasy Sae to check up on him every once in a while before we return to our house to pack for a few days’ trip. I almost ask her to check up on Buttercup, but I’m certain he can take care of himself, so I drop the subject altogether.

I want to work on pages with my mother, and Peeta thinks it’s a good idea to pay Annie a visit too. Before we leave, I make sure to give my mom a phone call to let her know Peeta and I are coming by. She and Annie are both there to greet us at the station.

“Katniss,” my mom says after pulling back from a hug. Her eyes are shining with tears, and one hand is carefully cupping my face. The genuine, happy smile on her face says more than words ever could.

When we break apart, she hugs Peeta just as tightly, even kisses him on the cheek. “Thank you,” she whispers, “for taking care of her.”

Peeta glances in my direction and smiles when he meets my eyes. “We take care of each other” is all he says.

We greet Annie next with a quick hug and a peck on the cheek. She’s careful not to move her stroller; the little girl tucked inside is fast asleep. She has Annie’s hair and Finnick’s green eyes and smile. Annie smiles, too, and thanks Peeta and me for coming down to visit.

When we walk along the shore later, talking and catching up, her mind wanders sometimes, which isn’t that unusual from her state before. She’s doing much better now, though.

Nowadays, Annie is rarely seen without a smile. She and Peeta are in the living room cooing at the baby while my mom and I are in the kitchen. I show her what I have of my book so far. She carefully examines each page. Her eyes tear up when we get to Prim’s pages, and her fingers delicately trace over the pressed primrose and the portrait Peeta painted of Prim.

“It’s wonderful,” she says softly. “Peeta did a great job.” My mom sniffles, recomposes herself, and turns her attention from the book to me. “How are you and Peeta doing, by the way?”

“Good. Really good,” I answer, stealing a glance at Peeta as he plays with the baby in the living room. I turn my attention back to her. “It’s like he says,” I add. “We take care of each other.”

My mom smiles at that. She continues flipping through the book with a delicate touch. I watch her expression carefully, watch how the subtle upturn of her lips never seems to leave.

After a few moments, I find the courage to ask her, “Are you happy?”

We’ve had this conversation before, more than a year ago. I can see and hear the difference from where she was then to where she is now. Her smiles come more easily, and her voice has a casual lilt to it—not quite the same as the kind once heard in my father’s, but it is like music all the same.

“I am,” says my mother. “How about you, Katniss? Are you happy?”

I take longer to answer than my mother. I try and sneak another glance at Peeta, but he catches my eye. He smiles and waves, coaxes the baby into waving, too. It feels natural to smile back.

For so long, I thought of happiness as the one emotion to constantly escape me. I thought of happiness as something brief, something that exists only in short moments of life and perhaps not at all. But I was wrong.

Maybe the scars would never fade. Maybe the nightmares never end. Maybe none of it—the games, the dead, the memories—ever truly leaves.

But when a feeling of peace settles lightly on my chest, I realize that it doesn’t matter if all those things remain. I’ve already decided that this life of mine is worth living another day. And another and another and every day that follows.

I take a deep breath and face forward. After all this time, I am finally able to reply, “I’m happy.”

**Author's Note:**

> I’m not gonna bother rewriting the epilogue, but a short addendum to what I had in mind for an alternate ending:
> 
> \- Katniss and Peeta get married, but it is a quiet affair, attended only by Haymitch, Greasy Sae, Mrs. Everdeen, Annie, and a few of the other living tributes. Peeta wants to invite Plutarch, too, out of courtesy, and Katniss reluctantly agrees, but only if Plutarch promises not to talk to her about having their wedding broadcasted. No cameras. Just friends.
> 
> \- Katniss and Peeta don’t have kids themselves, but years and years down the road, Katniss thinks about fostering, and Peeta is ecstatic about it.
> 
> \- The one thing Katniss agrees to broadcasting is Prim’s memorial. Katniss is reluctant, at first, because it’s her sister and it _should_ be family only, but she realizes that without Prim, there would have never been a revolution. If Prim’s name hadn’t been picked, Katniss never would have volunteered, never would have been a part of dismantling the tyrannical system of government. She tells the cameras, the people, as much on TV. 
> 
> (on a side note: Gale sees. He turns off the TV and goes to bed. Alone.)
> 
> \- Haymitch passes away a few years later. He watches the 50th Games with Katniss and Peeta on the anniversary of the Hunger Games when he leans back in his chair and closes his eyes. “Just for a second,” he says. His eyes never open.
> 
> \- Katniss and Peeta carry on Haymitch’s tradition. They watch two more tapes that day—besides the 50th Games, they start watching the 74th and 75th Games. They only stop after they start fostering kids.
> 
> \- Though the moments are fewer with the years that pass, there are times where Katniss and Peeta still wake to nightmares, where Peeta needs to be alone to paint, where Katniss needs to be alone in the woods. But they still come back every time. For each other.


End file.
